


Après Vous

by klytaemnestra (klytae)



Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [3]
Category: Before Crisis: Final Fantasy VII, Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24994984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klytae/pseuds/klytaemnestra
Summary: The first week, Rufus mourns.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Series: Midgar Blues - A Collection of Shinra Noir [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1915873
Comments: 8
Kudos: 105





	Après Vous

**Author's Note:**

> Bastardizing BC canon. Angsty filth, allusions to self harm.

The first week, Rufus mourns. Tseng is gone, possibly forever. His own doing, he accepts, had he not betrayed the Turk, perhaps things might have gone differently. But now, here alone in exile on the rocky shores of Junon, he comes to realize that he has damaged their relationship in a manner that is irreparable. Tseng, the only person in this world that might think of him as more than simply his name, might consider him worth caring about, has left him here.

His lip is still swollen from where Heidegger under the guise of interrogation had abruptly backhanded him. He knows the Director of Public Safety enjoyed it, would have left him bloody and broken had he not given in so quickly the moment Tseng was out of the room.

He tells himself that it wasn’t love, for who could possibly love him. And anyway, Tseng is his subordinate, his father’s spy, nothing could exist between them, not on any level of permanence. But he aches with it, feeling more hollow than usual.

The second week, Rufus is destructive. Liquor bottles broken, mirrors shattered, hand bandaged and shards of glass removed from broken skin. The medic regards the young heir with concerned eyes, but says nothing. He acts out one evening, a shard of broken glass dragged along the blue tinged vein beneath the delicate pale skin of his wrist, then the other. The officer assigned to him that shift finds him listless on the floor of his apartment, white clothes stained crimson. He gets his first phone call that night, it’s from his father, there is no concern in his voice, only disappointment, disgust that his son would stoop to such theatrics. The flesh is mended with healing materia, and tightly bandaged in white gauze, the same medic resigns from his post the following day, unwilling to be the one responsible if Rufus Shinra dies on his watch.

During the third week, Rufus begins to fantasize.

It’s lonely here. He looks out the expansive windows that overlook the bay.

He discreetly orders a few personal items. If he must be alone, he will find ways to pass the time.

He’s stretched across the bed, silken robe undone, cock hard and straining against his hand as the other slides a well lubricated toy inside.

Tseng.

He thinks to the way they would fall together, all hands and lips, groping at one another’s bodies. The way Tseng’s hair would fall across his collarbone while they fucked. He misses that touch, the feel of his body above his own. He keens high in his throat. Imagines Tseng's weight bearing down upon him, forcing his thighs open further still as he fucks him until he's nearly screaming. He slides the toy deeper. It's wider than what he's used to, the size of it punishing as it stretches him.

He thinks of what might have been between them, had it lasted.

His thoughts turn darker then. He thinks of what Tseng might think were he to take others into his bed. He tries to imagine all sorts of degrading scenarios that would drive Tseng mad.

The guards outside his door, he's seen the way at least two look at him. He's untouchable but he wonders, envisions the scenario if he were to invite them inside with a proposition. He thinks of their muscled bodies against his own, pinning him between them. He thinks of them taking turns fucking him. Let the guards laugh about the cock slut the President's son is as long as one touches him.

The touch of his own hand isn't enough. It was never about the sex, even if he craves it. He's not been touched by another since Tseng kissed him there on the tarmac. He thinks about Sephiroth, the general pinning him over his desk, holding him down as he takes out his vengeance on Shinra by fucking the President’s heir and making him beg for it. And then there’s Veld. The man who he betrayed. Envisions Tseng’s face. The look on it as he watches them together, his mentor, a man old enough to be his own father. It would destroy Tseng, crush him. Pleasure erupts in a blinding intensity at the thought of it as he clenches around the object that is a poor facsimile of a cock inside him. He muffles his cries into the pillow, and in the aftermath feels more hollow than he did before.

He looks at high priced escorts online, his preferences bringing up listings of beautiful dark haired men. Discreet, uncomplicated, someone to fuck him and leave. There is no way he'd get a whore past security. Perhaps if he asks nicely. 

One night after he’s had a bit too much to drink, he looks at Tseng's photo in the employee database. Sepia toned, a few years out of date, his hair shorter. His PHS has been confiscated--he’d had the foresight to delete whichever ones he’d saved before relinquishing the device--so this must suffice. 

He starts slowly. It’s a new toy, one he ordered to the exact specifications of the length and girth of Tseng’s cock. Finely made from hand blown glass, curved just so for prostate stimulation. The scent of Tseng’s cologne hangs heavy in the air, sandalwood and spice.

His fingers ghost along his collarbone, imagining they are Tseng’s, the way he would smooth his hands along the expanse of his chest as he pushed his shirt away. He leans back, legs propped against his desk as he stares at the photo across his computer screen. He inhales once, and slides the glass object inside. He moans then, makes a soft sound that’s akin to a whimper at the familiarity. Tseng often would pause after penetration to allow Rufus’ body to adjust.

He begins to move then, shifting as if Tseng were there, stares at those eyes on the monitor, those lips, the line of his jaw, and sighs his name. There are no outside phone calls after hours unless it is deemed an emergency, but he longs to hear his voice, to moan his desire into Tseng's ear. Wonders what Tseng might do if he were to hear his former lover coming for him from 200 miles away.

He shoves the phallus harder, wishing he were riding Tseng's cock. As good at this is, it’s not nearly enough. He tries another scenario. He thinks of fucking Tseng, of watching him come undone. Would the Turk be silent, taking his dick stoically, or would he gasp and claw at Rufus' shoulders. He regrets that he’s never had the experience, if Tseng might have trusted him enough.

He speeds up then, moaning each time he passes over that bundle of nerves inside that makes his vision blur with pleasure. He thinks of Tseng turning him, of holding him upright as he drives into him from behind. He stands on shaky legs, drapes himself across the desk and fucks himself until he’s nearly mad with pleasure. ‘Tseng, oh fuck. Tseng.’ He comes with a sound that’s nearly a shout, harder than he can recall ever coming on his own. He rests his head against the desk, rocking the toy a few more times the way Tseng would eke out the last bit of pleasure from their coupling.

He thinks to email him, but fears it would be too conspicuous. Nothing that leaves his company account goes unmonitored, and there is no reason for the President’s son to be contacting the head of the Turks at this hour.

He runs his fingertips across the image, lingering on the curve of Tseng’s lips as the system shuts down and fades to black.

By the fourth week, Rufus Shinra hasn’t been fucked by anyone. There’s the silvery trace of a scar along his wrists. He’ll need gloves to conceal them. He wanders the 5 rooms of his apartment, sleeps too little, drinks too much. He expects a video call that never comes after the first month, and after a few weeks he accepts that he’s been left here to be forgotten. His old man had spent years trying to ship him away from Midgar, perhaps he reminded him too much of his late mother, perhaps the bastard had always known Rufus would one day challenge his rule.

After a lifetime of isolation, he resigns himself to it. To be kept a prisoner until his father deems it fit to bring him home.

The weeks stretch into months, he no longer fantasizes about the guards outside his door, nor does he think of Tseng. He closes that part of himself off. Knows that it was foolish of him to believe that anyone might have cared for him when all he’d ever been told by the ones who should have cared the most that he was a failure, and disappointment

He’s dozing when it happens. A knock. He sits up, raking a hand through blonde hair, and crosses the room to open the door.

Tseng stands there, and for a moment Rufus thinks of slamming it in his face. Instead he slides disdainfully away into the corner, wanting to keep his distance from the Turk.

Tseng regards him with dark eyes, perhaps it’s the clothing he now dons, dark slacks and shirt, a few buttons undone, sleeves pushed up his forearms, but he looks thinner now out of his customary white suits. Tseng chooses not to dwell on what has driven Rufus to dress in black, but the colour does little to compliment his already pale complexion, and not for the first time Tseng questions the terms of Rufus’ punishment. The cruelty of it all.

‘I’ve been told that you’re not eating, Sir.’

He’s met with silence.

‘If the food is not to your liking--’

‘It’s not the food.’

Tseng looks as if he is dealing with a baleful child. But there is concern there. If Rufus Shinra’s behaviour has become worrisome enough to merit a visit, he knows there is more to it. He would not have been called to Junon for some trivial matter.

Rufus edges away a bit further, arms folded across his chest suddenly acutely aware of the fact that in this lighting the scars on his wrists are visible. He wants the Turk gone, so he can languish here alone in misery.

‘Rufus?’

He glares at Tseng at the sound of his name. ‘Get out.’

‘Sir.’ Tseng studies him then, his posture, the way he’s trying to conceal something and crosses the distance between them. He catches Rufus’ wrist before he can move away, looks at the scar. The emotion he feels is close to anger, that Rufus might do this, but more so that no one had deemed it necessary to officially report back.

‘Let go of me.’

‘No, Sir.’

‘I order you.’

Tseng releases his wrist on command, but he lingers there, too close to be considered entirely professional, some part of him still harbouring that lingering concern from when they had been something more. ‘Sir, it’s not my place.’

‘No, it isn’t. Your place.’

‘If you’re harming yourself, Sir.’

‘As if you’d care. Get out.’

‘Rufus.’

‘I said get out. I don’t need your concern.’

There’s another attempt that night, this time with pills mixed with alcohol, not enough to cause any lasting damage, but he spends a night at the military infirmary, closely watched by men in white lab coats. He receives no phone call this time, but the incident is officially reported back with the suggestion that Rufus Shinra be assigned a permanent watch.

3 days later Reno shows up. Rufus’ interaction with this particular Turk have been few. He’s mouthier than Tseng, and harbours a bit of barely masked disdain for the heir.

‘Ya know, boss, if you’re serious about it, you’ve got to make an effort.’

Tseng’s orders had been to not antagonize the President’s son, but looking at him there amid all the finery of this place, Reno can’t help himself. He knows what Rufus had tried to do, nearly got them all killed with his scheming. He also knows they were fucking. Wouldn’t be good at his job if he didn’t see the subtle nuances. What Tseng saw in him aside from the obvious, he doesn’t understand. Rufus is attractive as fuck, eyes like polished support materia, aristocratic cheekbones, and those long legs could wrap around your neck and shoulders like a vice. Yeah, he knows why Tseng fucked him. But the rest of it, just too much trouble than he’s worth.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard me, you wanna check out, you’ve got to make it for real. Use a gun, or something. None of this melodrama.’ It could get him fired, maybe. But no one higher up gives a shit about Rufus Shinra at the moment. So what’s the harm?

But it does get back, to Tseng. Who sits there in silence, dark eyes boring holes into Reno’s skull as he sighs in exasperation. What part of do not antagonize the President’s son meant casually suggest more effective ways to get everyone’s attention.

He sends Rude next. Rufus opens the door before he can even knock, blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. Rude is nothing like his partner, stoic professionalism, he answers Rufus’ questions efficiently. If Rude sees the scars, he says nothing, even if his eyes are almost sympathetic behind dark shades.

Few words pass between them, but his presence is a bit calming, and when Rude reports back Tseng is relieved to know that there have been no incidents. He’s still not eating, at least not enough, and judging by the way money leaves his account, he’s been practically burning through liquor. Tseng monitors his every action, each purchase, and tries to tell himself that this is no longer personal, Rufus Shinra is an adult, if a bit maladjusted and petulant. It’s not their place to lecture him, but he cannot shake the low pain in his throat when he thinks of Rufus standing there, hostile and so pale.  
  
He means nothing. Whatever once existed between them is broken, irrevocably. 

It doesn’t stop him from commandeering the first helicopter available when Reno returns from a routine visit, downs two consecutive shots of whiskey, and reports back that Rufus has threatened him with a shotgun. He’d told Reno not to antagonize the President’s son.

He stays in Junon that night, tells himself there is no repairing this as he sits alone on the sofa listening to mournful sounds of the shipyard at night, while Rufus sleeps one room away.  
  
Tseng does not leave Junon the following day, reporting back to HQ that his presence is required a bit longer.

It’s been 3 days. Rufus is at least talking to him. Small victories. He studies Rufus in the daylight. ‘When was the last time you went outside, Sir?’

Rufus looks up from where he’s stretched out across the sofa reading. ‘I haven’t.’

Rufus has done his very most to make this as much of a prison as possible. Perhaps he’s done it out of spite even if he’s only truly harmed himself. Tseng does not press the matter. Whatever dark place he’s fallen into, he needs to pull him out of that.

‘You know you’re allowed outside, Sir.’

‘Under supervision.’ There’s still some disdain there in his tone, but there’s no true vitriol behind it any longer.

‘I you would allow me, I doubt there’d be any need for additional guards.’  
  
It’s chilly that afternoon, and Tseng helps Rufus into his overcoat. They walk along the docks together. Rufus is quieter than he once was, though Tseng hardly can think of what they might possibly talk about now, so he makes an attempt at small talk, the ships, if Rufus has found it difficult to adjust after years spent surrounded by the city noises of Midgar, but he only answers in soft, noncommittal sounds.

He looks at Rufus, blonde hair tousled by the sea breeze, the way he shivers just slightly, unaccustomed to being outside the temperature controlled environment of his apartment, and knows with certainty that he is not over this thing that had occurred between them.

‘I want to go back.’ Rufus says after a while, coat collar pulled more tightly around his neck.  
  
Tseng nods, and follows Rufus back to his rooms. The guards posted outside step aside respectfully, deferring to Tseng’s rank as the Director of Administrative Research.

‘I wish they’d leave.’ Rufus voices once they’re back inside, shrugging off his coat.

‘They are following your father’s orders, Sir.’

Rufus pauses, seems to consider this for a moment, before continuing, ‘And you, Tseng? Are you following my father’s orders?’

No, he thinks. He’s here by choice. It’s been two attempts already, and while he does not believe Rufus Shinra as the type to truly let his father win by taking his own life, he cannot take that risk. Whatever mental state Rufus is in, it’s hardly good. ‘No, Sir. I am not.’

Rufus makes a sound akin to a laugh. ‘Scare Reno that much, then.’

‘It’s not Reno I am worried about, Sir.’

Tseng returns to Midgar the following day.

Rufus spends the afternoon draped across his sofa, fucking himself in various positions, drawing out his orgasm for as long as possible as he thinks of Tseng. He shudders his release, and knows that he will never get the Turk out of his head. He does call Tseng this time. Asks if the line is secure and demands privacy from his jailers.

‘The thought of you made me come earlier.’

Tseng is nearly silent on the other end, but Rufus thinks he can hear the barest hitch of breath.

‘Say my name. Please.’

Tseng does.

‘I can’t stay, the guards will be back soon.’

‘Rufus. I--’ He is met by the droning sound of the dial tone.

Tseng returns to Junon 12 days later. Rufus is already into a bottle of brandy, and whatever words he has prepared to deal with Rufus’ admission nearly 2 weeks prior evaporate as he finds the Shinra heir languidly stretched out in nothing but his silken robe. It would be wrong to even begin to discuss the matter of their relationship with Rufus in such a state even if he wants to shove the robe from those shoulders and trail a line of kisses from collarbone to cock.

Tseng excuses himself, citing a long journey and the need for a shower. He does not remain in Rufus’ apartment, instead heading to the showers designated for the officers. He strips off his suit, stands beneath the fall of water, and works himself to a quick release. When he returns he’s dressed more casually, drops his overnight bag in the corner of the living room, and eyes Rufus who’s now standing in the kitchen making some attempt at preparing food.

‘Sir?’

Rufus turns holding what appears to be a box of pasta. ‘I’m not very good at it, but I thought--’

Tseng smiles then, understanding, trying to bury the pain that’s threatening to consume him. They aren’t lovers, not any longer, and no matter how much he wants Rufus again, longs to hold him, and laugh with him, and eat mediocre boxed pasta with him, he doesn’t know how to fix this.

He sits quietly at the kitchen counter as he watches Rufus Shinra half drunk preparing them a meal.

The lighting is low, as soft moody jazz lilts around them. For whatever reason Rufus prefers to have their meal on the living room floor, a bottle of red wine between them, bowls of pasta in hand. It’s not bad, Tseng has to admit. Rufus is hardly a culinary genius, but there is something oddly touching about it all. He thinks then what it may have been like had they been given another life.

They are both on the second glass of wine when Tseng reaches out to take Rufus’ hand. ‘Do you mind?’ Rufus shakes his head just slightly as Tseng turns his hand over, looks at the faint scar running vertical along his wrist.

‘It wasn’t like that …’ his voice trails off, as he thinks to that night. ‘I thought if I did something this might end. But all I got was a reprimand.’

His fingers linger on the silvery mark, it’s nearly 8 centimeters long. Acting out or not, it could have gone so horribly wrong.

‘They won’t fade.’

‘I’ll get you some gloves.’

They finish the wine, then open another. It’s a 5 year vintage from Kalm, and they drink half the bottle together. Tseng wakes up some hours later to find Rufus asleep in his arms where the two must have dozed off across the sofa. He smells like sunshine and spice, blonde head tucked beneath his chin, bare leg thrown over Tseng’s. The familiarity of it makes Tseng ache. Gently he disentangles their bodies, careful not to wake him.  
  
Rufus looks the most relaxed he has in months, and Tseng wishes how things might have been. He gathers him into his arms, and carefully carries him into the bedroom, noting how light he seems. Rufus has always been lithe fine muscle, but there is an uncommon fragility about him now. He tucks him in, fluffy comforter pulled around his shoulders. But he lingers there for a moment before closing the door quietly behind him and retreating back to the couch. They’ll both have raging hangovers in the morning, but now all he wants is to sleep, and hopefully not dream of Rufus Shinra splayed before him, willing and wanting.

Tseng leaves 38 hours later, discretely providing Rufus a phone as he gathers up his things. Something on the Turks' account, covert, untraceable. Next time Rufus decides to get off to the thought of him, he won’t need to get permission to tell him.

The first call happens while he’s still mid-flight. Rufus has always been a bit of a sex fiend once their relationship had become physical, but even he has not anticipated this. Rufus is sighing into his ear, telling him his fantasies. They will need to talk, he accepts. Put boundaries in place, but each sound Rufus makes shoots a low ache of pleasure and want between his legs.

The second call, Tseng is in his office, Reno and Rude seated at their respective desks decidedly not doing work. Rufus tells him how he’s on the floor with a glass cock shoved inside, how it’s the same size as Tseng, he’d ordered it made. How he misses him inside. He shifts uncomfortably in his desk chair as he hears Rufus moaning his name.

Reno shoots him a look from across the room, and for a moment Tseng thinks they can hear Rufus, breath ragged, whimpering and gasping and telling Tseng how much he misses his cock. The call cuts out, and it takes all of Tseng’s willpower to not give away the fact that he’d just been listening to their boss’s son coming for him.

The third is Rufus describing in great detail of how he’d like to suck his cock right before Heidegger walks into his office. He ends the call abruptly.

The closer to the day Tseng is to return, the calls cease. It’s a strange game they’re playing. Rufus is quiet, reserved, and melancholic whenever Tseng is around. He receives a call the day before he is scheduled to return to Junon, and he braces himself for whatever filth has found its way into Rufus’ mouth. Instead it’s a request. Champagne, caviar, a shopping list of small luxury goods unavailable in Junon. He puts in an order, but the request for the cologne Rufus wears from a boutique in Sector 6 requires a personal trip where he can make an additional inquiry.

This trip feels different as if something subtle has shifted between the two. Rufus is draped across him on the sofa, pleasantly drunk off champagne and the promise of a kiss. If things are to resume between them, he needs Rufus’ full consent.

The next day he does kiss him, takes his chin into his hand, and tilts him just so as he closes his mouth over Rufus’. They spend the afternoon on the sofa making out like a couple of teenagers, hands groping and fumbling as Rufus moans into his mouth, long legs wrapped around his slim hips. They’re both hard and wanting, rocking against one another in mimicry of their tongues, and Tseng thinks of how easy it would be to give in to the pull of attraction, the need, to strip Rufus of his slacks and take him into his mouth until he’s a writhing mess beneath him. Instead he finally withdraws, looks into those painfully blue eyes, and accepts that they will need to be patient.

He does not accept Rufus’ invitation to share his bed that night, even if he longs to feel him fall asleep in his arms. Knows that his body would betray him, and then there would be no stopping this thing between them.

They spend the following days tangled together, quietly enjoying one another’s company. Rufus slowly returns to his former self, even as Tseng knows that it cannot last. He must return to Midgar, he considers how he might breach the topic of being assigned as a permanent guard to Rufus Shinra.

It’s their last day together, Tseng scheduled to fly out at 19:00. Rufus captures him in a kiss as the Turk makes them breakfast, body pressed against his. His lips are a sweet torture against Tseng’s ear, breath warm as he sighs huskily, ‘I want to show you what you do to me.’

Breakfast is forgotten as the two find themselves in Rufus’ bedroom. Rufus runs a hand along his chest, pushing his robe open just so, eyes clouded with desire, pupils blown despite the morning sun. He scratches his nails along his inner thigh. ‘Open the bedside drawer.’

Tseng does. He swallows hard. There’s an assortment of toys that he knows Rufus has been using on himself.

‘The glass one. It’s the same size as you.’

If he wasn’t hard before, he is now. ‘Sir.’ He tries to focus on anything but the way heat pools between his legs.

‘Hand it to me.’

He does, the weight of it heavier than he’s anticipated, its size familiar. _Oh Shiva._ He watches as Rufus licks the toy, mimicking the way he would go down on Tseng, tilting his head back just so to take it in further still. ‘Rufus.’

He withdraws the object, looks up at Tseng from where he’s now reclining across the unmade bed. ‘Touch yourself. You know you want to.’

Tseng does, and yet. ‘Is this what you want?’

‘Yes.’

He watches as Rufus slides the toy inside. Thinks of how it felt to be buried to the hilt in that tight heat. 'Gods, Rufus.'

'I always thought of you.' It's a lie, but what does it matter now?

Tseng frees himself from his trousers, holds the aching weight of his cock in his hand and imagines it’s Rufus. He comes to Rufus when beckoned, kneeling before him on the bed, hand working furiously over his length as he watches Rufus fuck himself. Rufus is making a valiant effort to keep their eyes focused when the toy hits just the right spot and he nearly sobs with pleasures, eyes squeezed shut as he buries his face into the bedsheets.

He’s close, too close. The months spent without one another heighten this pleasure as they mutually engage in self gratification. Rufus shoves the glass phallus inside a handful of times before he comes with a groan of Tseng’s name simply from prostate stimulation. It’s over for Tseng bare moments later, Rufus pleading with him to come on him, if they cannot physically fuck, he wants the traces of Tseng’s release on his body.

Tseng erupts in a moment of pleasure all over Rufus’ face and collarbone. It would be degrading if not for the way Rufus runs his fingertips along his lips, dragging it into his mouth, sighing at the taste of Tseng. Tseng leans forward, taking Rufus’ face in his hands and kisses away the traces, tongue sliding into Rufus’ waiting mouth as they both moan at the absolute abasement of it all.

They spend the remainder of the day acting as if nothing has happened. The weather is warmer today, and Tseng suggests they take a long walk together. They have lunch at a small seaside cafe’ just up the beach, Rufus dining on oysters and champagne.

‘I wish you could stay.’ Rufus voices after a while, idly skewering a lemon wedge with his cocktail fork.

‘My duty unfortunately is required elsewhere.’

‘Yes. But what if it weren’t?’ His voice conspiratorial.

Three weeks later Tseng returns, this time on a more lengthy visit. Tseng has made the suggestion that perhaps in order to prevent the President’s son from acting out, he might require the supervision of a Turk. Heidegger scoffs at the notion, saying that if the brat kills himself that’s on him alone. But the President, for all his faults, is a more pragmatic man. A dead heir is unfortunate business, and with two attempts and no guarantee there will not be another, he begins to consider if Tseng might make a better jailer. Afterall, the Turk had been personally betrayed by Rufus Shinra.

Tseng arrives just after sunset right before a winter storm settles over the coast, luggage dropped at the door as Rufus greets him with a kiss, arms around his shoulders, smiling in a way Tseng has feared he’d never see again.

Rufus cooks for them again that night, rice with bean curd, and it reminds Tseng of home, baijiu instead of wine. It’s a quarter before 8 when Rufus rises from his spot on the floor, collecting their dishes, and gives Tseng the most ridiculous bedroom eyes he thinks he’s ever seen. Long dark lashes lowering in a slow blink over light eyes.

Tseng practically sweeps him into his arms.

They fall onto the bed together, Tseng frantically trying to divest them both of their clothing. He lifts Rufus until his legs are braced against his shoulders, and leans forward, tongue swiping across that tight ring of muscle, probing. He thinks to the glass toy in the bedside drawer, thinks of how he’d very much like to tease Rufus with it, preparing him to take his cock.

Rufus whines high in his throat as Tseng withdraws, only to cry out when he feels the toy slick with lubricant hard and relentless against his entrance. ‘Tseng--’ His name is a strangled growl as the object slides in with little resistance.

Tseng watches the way it slides inside, how his body clenches and grips at it. ‘You’ve been using this thinking of me. How long should I make you wait for my cock?’

‘Please.’

Tseng shoves the toy in harder knowing that the angle of it has hit Rufus’ sweet spot. ‘I’m enjoying the thought of you getting off on this for months.’

He withdraws the toy, pausing a moment. Rufus looks up at him in adoration as Tseng’s weight bears down upon him, forcing him open, body yielding to Tseng’s cock. They hold onto each other there in that moment taking comfort in the familiarity of one another’s bodies, and as Tseng begins to move in slow thrusts he is seized with a possessiveness he’s never felt. The need to be with Rufus no matter their shared difficulties, rank and honour and duty be damned. None of those things matter unless he has this beautiful brittle complicated man.  
  
They kiss languidly, bodies moving in synchronization as if they were never parted, hands tracing along fine muscle and sharp angles as they part only to gasp in shared breaths as the heated pleasure builds between the sweat slick bodies, while outside a storm begins to rage. It’s over too quickly, the intensity of their time apart crashing over them in a blinding wave of passion and exhilaration. They lay entwined together, trembling and sighing and speaking soft endearments that are intended for none other to hear.

They lay together on the sofa some time later, freshly showered and smelling of Rufus’ expensive body wash, languidly draped beneath a soft blanket, basking in the warm glow of a fire. It’s begun to ice outside, they’ll be locked indoors for days if the weather holds, though Tseng cannot find a scenario in which he’d rather be.

But there is one last thing, something Tseng has tucked away in his luggage. Rufus makes a soft sound of protest as he slides from their warm nest.

‘Wait.’ Tseng returns moments later, a smartly appointed gift box in hand, tied with a ribbon the colour of Rufus’ eyes.

‘What’s this?’ Rufus looks suspicious.

‘A small gift, Sir. If you will.’

Rufus deftly unties the ribbon, allowing the strip of silk to slip carelessly from his hands, before lifting the lid to the box. A pair of black leather gloves lay wrapped amid faintly perfumed tissue paper.

‘For the scars.’

They’re from a glove maker in Sector 6, beautifully hand crafted. Rufus slips the half gloves on, snapping them into place, the fit is a little higher up the wrists, and admires the craftsmanship.

‘I have all mine custom ordered. They’ll not interfere with your trigger finger.’

Rufus Shinra with all his wealth and privilege and fine luxury goods is rendered nearly speechless at the gesture. ‘They’re perfect.’ he finally says, turning to Tseng then and capturing his mouth in a kiss.

Tseng smiles against the kiss, as the storm outside surrounds them in a blanket of ice, and thinks how he could stay entwined with Rufus Shinra in this moment forever.

  
  
_fin_   
  



End file.
